


Fade to Black

by Eyes_of_a_Tragedy



Series: Dean's Drawers [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftercare, Bleeding, Bondage, Consensual Abuse, Could be interpreted as dubcon - see opening notes, Dark, Dom Drop, Dom Sam, Emotional Trauma, Established Sam Winchester/Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Impact Play, Knife Play, M/M, Minor Blood Loss, No Sex, None of these "Play" tags are truly play, Safewords, Sam's POV, Sensory Deprivation, Sub Dean, Use of Angelic Grace, Wax Play, Wincest - Freeform, breath play, except the last paragraph
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 02:26:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13940631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eyes_of_a_Tragedy/pseuds/Eyes_of_a_Tragedy
Summary: Sam’s known it was coming for days now. Dean’s been on edge – full of piss and vinegar, snapping for no reason, bashing himself needlessly – and nothing Sam has said or done has caused any change in Dean’s attitude. Thus, it comes as absolutely zero shock when he gets the text message while he’s out stocking up on beer and food staples.“black”That’s all it says. That’s all Sam needs.





	Fade to Black

**Author's Note:**

> The dubcon tag is strictly for those who might read this and be triggered. This is not an easy fic to read, nor was it easy to write. I cried for these characters; I cried for myself. And I kinda hate myself for doing this to all of us.
> 
> I cannot stress enough that all parties in this fic wholeheartedly consent to this, if not by word, by action. There are moments where the thoughts go dark, but never in this fic is there an instance of nonconsensual involvement. Dean consents. Sam consents. Cas doesn’t approve, but he consents to his involvement. I consented to the writing of it, even though it hurt. We are all accountable for our roles in this.
> 
> It should also be noted that all of the tags up there with the word “Play” on the end of them aren’t really play. This is not a roleplay fic. This is honest to Chuck domination of someone who needs to be stripped of his demons. Please keep that in mind if you’re going to proceed. You have been warned.
> 
> If you’re still here, you may have noticed this is a continuation of Let the Music Take Control, a story I wrote a while back. In it, Sam and Dean are in an established relationship and have a code for communicating Dean’s sexual needs. It’s not necessary to read that work prior to this one, but the code will go right over your head if you don’t.
> 
> I’m not sure how many more works will be added to this series. I have a multitude of ideas that hit my brain all at one time. But real life is kicking my ass, at the moment, so I have no idea when those ideas will translate to actual written format. I can tell you, they will not all be this dark. In fact, I think this is as dark as it’s going to get. For the love of pie, I hope it doesn’t get any darker than this.
> 
> Love, hugs, and comforting energy to all of you! I hope I handled this with the due respect I constantly aim for. <3

Sam’s known it was coming for days now. Dean’s been on edge – full of piss and vinegar, snapping for no reason, bashing himself needlessly – and nothing Sam has said or done has caused any change in Dean’s attitude. Thus, it comes as absolutely zero shock when he gets the text message while he’s out stocking up on beer and food staples.

_“black”_

That’s all it says. That’s all Sam needs. He’d been careful while shopping to only grab non-perishables and leaves them on the kitchen counter, stashing the beer in the fridge. Moving with purpose, but not rushing, he heads to his bedroom and strips out of his clothes, opting to don a loose pair of worn-in black cotton pajama pants. Padding on bare feet, he makes his way down the hall, past Dean’s bedroom, to what is his least favorite room in the bunker.

It’s a room that is necessary, and Sam will never begrudge Dean’s need of it, but it’s the room where everything breaks, goes dark, and while it seems to bring Dean back from the brink of dealing with his personal demons, it’s like a sucker punch to Sam’s sanity. Every single fucking time.

Taking a deep breath, Sam rolls his head from side to side, neck cracking like gun fire, and rolls his shoulders to ease some of the tension lurking there. He doesn’t want to do this, hates doing this, but he loves Dean more than his own selfish desires. Winchesters sacrifice for the ones they love.

He braces himself as he opens the door. The tension in his body is pulled tighter than any bowstring he’s ever plucked. He can feel his skin tightening from his hairline down to his toes, muscles bunched into knots of dread, but he still opens the door with a determination that he learned from the man inside, the man waiting to be stripped of all his anguish.

The lighting is minimal, just a wedge of sickly yellow on the floor from the light streaming in from the hallway. Leaving the door standing open, Sam crosses to the tall candelabra standing in the corner and lights the tapers with the single match that was left perched at the base of the stand. Grabbing one of the lit candles, he wanders to the other side of the room and repeats the process on the candles there, wax spilling on his hand as he does.

The pain doesn’t even touch him. It has no place here for him. His sole focus is the man who, even after all of these years, still falls into that darkness he clawed his way out of.

Replacing the candle in its holder, Sam closes the door then moves to Dean. He’s on his knees, wearing nothing but a pair of plain faded black cotton boxers, head hanging low, and Sam knows that Dean is barely registering Sam’s presence or the sudden glow of fire in the room.

Gently gripping Dean’s chin, Sam calmly states, “This goes no further until you give me your safeword.” The only indication that Dean has heard him is a tightening of his jaw.

Sam waits. He stares down at the top of his brother’s head – hair dusted bronze and gold in the light of the candles’ flames – and breathes in measured counts of four. Inhale, two, three, four. Exhale, two, three, four. Dean’s breathing is shallower and quicker, but it, too, is still controlled in its own fucked up way.

Finally, after what feels like hours but is probably only minutes, Sam feels the muscles under his fingers ease enough for Dean’s jaw to unclench and speak.

“Alistair.”

Sam wants to throw up. That Dean has chosen the name of his torturer as his safeword causes Sam’s gut to turn into a ball of slithering snakes, every fucking time. He hates the word, detests the name with every fiber of his being, loathes its presence in this place. If it wasn’t for the fact that Dean needs him to be the one in control, Sam would be curled into a fetal ball, bleeding every ounce of grief he has onto the floor. But he doesn’t have that luxury. Right now, in this space, he’s Dean’s rock, his safe place. And he’s not going to fail him again.

“My safeword is ‘love’,” he counters. He won’t speak it, only offers it because the first time he didn’t and it all went to shit. Sam broke first during their initial attempt, and Dean, being Dean, dug himself out of his own personal hell to take care of his little brother. Again. And they weren’t okay for weeks after.

Shaking off the ghosts of failures past, Sam drops his hand from Dean’s jaw and walks to the black chest in the corner. It contains every form of torture device Sam is comfortable wielding, as well as multiple types of restriction. He grabs two sets of metal shackles and returns to Dean’s side.

He loops the longer set on a hook set into the ceiling, leaving the ends dangling, then lifts Dean to his feet and turns him toward the brick wall. He fastens the cuffs to each of Dean’s wrists, strips off his boxers, and pushes him back to his knees, the chain dragging Dean’s arms over his head. The second shorter set gets run through a bolt embedded in the floor between Dean’s ankles, which are then secured shoulders’ width apart.

The length of Dean’s body is stretched taut, muscles constricting against their restraints. In the glow flickering over Dean’s skin, Sam can see the faint sheen of sweat appearing at Dean’s temples, the base of his spine, the backs of his knees. The heat of the candles is finally making its presence felt. Which gives Sam an idea.

He strides back to the first candelabra and retrieves one of the tapers. Walking to Dean’s side, he uses the hand not holding the candle to grab Dean’s chin and turn it to the side. He holds the candle in front of Dean’s face until he sees a brief flutter of eyelashes, then releases Dean and steps to his six. Placing one hand on Dean’s shoulder, he tilts the other just enough for wax to pour down Dean’s back. The trickling drops don’t seem to register, so Sam shifts his hand up to grasp Dean’s throat, tightening his fingers enough to dig in but not choke, and steps up flush to Dean’s back.

Moving the candle back into Dean’s field of vision, he tilts Dean’s head back enough to know that it’s causing Dean to arch slightly, raising him up so Sam has a better angle to work with. He drips more wax onto Dean’s chest, letting the flame flicker in Dean’s eyesight as it continues to melt liquid fire on his skin. Sam languidly spills onto Dean’s flesh in a pattern with no meaning – a trail over his left pectoral, tracing up to his right clavicle where he leaves a pool in the indentation between bone and muscle, over his shoulder to his trapezius, up the vertebrae of his neck and into his hair. Switching hands, he licks the flame near Dean’s left deltoid, leaving a pink trail of flushed skin, and moves back to the front, trickling molten fire onto Dean’s nipples until the candle is nothing more than a stump that Sam extinguishes on the brick wall.

He maintains his grip on Dean’s throat as he bends over him to peel off the hardened wax. The strain of Dean’s body hasn’t lessened, which comes as no surprise at all to Sam. Dean hasn’t gone this far away in months, perhaps years. The wax play is more to get Sam in the proper head space than it is for Dean’s benefit.

Stepping back to the chest, Sam removes a custom-made hood. It’s crafted from dark-stained brown leather, has cutouts for the nose and mouth, and fastens in the back with two thick straps that buckle at the back of Dean’s head and the base of his skull. Sam would love nothing more than to burn it in the fire of his revulsion, but instead pulls it over Dean’s face, tightening it enough that the edges dig in to the tendons and ligaments joining skull to vertebrae to muscle.

Glancing up at his brother’s bound wrists, he tells Dean, “Safeword now if you aren’t okay with this.”

Dean remains silent. Sam strides around to his front and squats so he’s at eye level with Dean. Though Dean’s eyes are covered, Sam knows he can sense him and waits until he sees Dean’s nostrils flare, chest rises, lips relax, before moving back to the chest and taking out Ruby’s knife.

Approaching Dean from the side, he slides the tip from the soft skin just under the bolt of Dean’s jaw to the fleshy palate behind his mandible. The bob of Dean’s Adam’s apple as he swallows forces the blade to pierce Dean’s skin just enough for blood to well to the surface. Removing the knife from Dean’s neck, Sam places the flat of the tip between Dean’s now-parted lips and presses down on the bottom one, watching Dean try not to move. Once he’s sure that Dean isn’t going to panic, Sam pushes the blade across the supple flesh, sliding it in further so that the point is sketching at the thin membrane between gums and inner lip. Dean’s breath hitches and Sam retracts the steel from his mouth.

Running the blunt edge over Dean’s shoulder, Sam circles to his brother’s back. He caresses the serrated part over Dean’s left shoulder blade and – just deep enough to break skin – carves a message, a vestige of Sam’s participation. Then he kneels between Dean’s spread legs and slides the tip down his spine, caressing each vertebra with the weapon that has slain so many of their enemies.

When he gets to the small of Dean’s back, he curves out toward his right hip and reaches around the front, following the line of his obliques to the tender flesh over his groin. He trails the blade through Dean’s pubic hair to the base of his cock, down his balls, being very careful not to cut in, then retraces his steps back up Dean’s happy trail to his belly button. He dips in slightly, pressing the tip just enough to feel resistance, then resumes his northward path up Dean’s abs to the flesh over his heart.

Sam pauses there. He can feel Dean trembling under his touch, shivers like angels dancing on the head of a pin.

Checking in, he asks, “What’s your safeword, Dean?”

Dean’s response comes in the form of his head loosely falling back into the crook of Sam’s neck. The lack of verbal communication confirms what Sam has been fearing. Dean won’t utter a syllable of the word – never does – won’t allow that presence beyond his lips, but he’s not so far gone that he’s beyond consent. He’s put every ounce of his trust in Sam’s hands. It’s terrifying; Sam’s gorge rises, acid etching terror up his esophagus.

Sam slices a shallow incision about four inches wide diagonally across Dean’s chest, the cut deep enough for blood to spill slowly, but freely, down to his brother’s stomach. Wiping the blade on his pant leg, Sam places it to the side and rubs his left hand up Dean’s chest to settle over his bleeding heart.

He wants to lean in and rest his head against Dean’s shoulder, needs that connection, but it’s not for now. Dean’s still too deep. Instead, he places his bloody hand over his own heart, symbolically acknowledging that Dean’s pain is also his, then wipes the remaining wetness on his pants.

Back at the chest, he pulls out a container of wet wipes and cleans his hands, also giving himself some time to regroup, gather his faculties. When he’s done, he withdraws a leather whip.

He knows Dean’s still lost in his own head, the nightmare memories he’s only briefly spoken about to Sam flashing across his eyelids. He knows he can’t change what happened there, in Hell, but he can change what happens here and now. Dean doesn’t know about this whip, doesn’t know that Sam took it upon himself to find someone skilled in the art of true domination who would teach him to use this properly on human flesh. He keeps his instructor’s business card in his wallet in case he should need to touch base. The man was amazingly astute and assured Sam that he could call him day or night if he needed assistance or a sounding board. It’s a small comfort that Sam wasn’t expecting when it came to this area of his life.

Unraveling the coiled braided leather, Sam trails it behind him and retreats until he’s standing a good distance behind Dean, looking at the lines and curves of his form. Using a sidearm strike, he gauges Dean’s reaction by flicking out one of the candle flames. There’s a slight flinch, and then Dean’s body sags, shoulders and wrists taking the weight of his frame, hands grasping at the chain holding him anchored.

It’s the first true sign of ease Sam has seen since well before this interlude began.

He tests Dean’s mettle by whipping him lightly on one of his ass cheeks. It barely registers a reaction – just the flexing of muscle – so he moves higher to the scapular region and hits hard enough to cause the skin to immediately redden. Slight tremor. He repeats the motion on various areas of Dean’s back, making sure to avoid vulnerable areas like the kidneys. With each strike, he can see Dean tense and flex. Knows he’s reaching him but can’t quite tell to what extent, and the not knowing lights a blaze of determination in him.

Increasing the pressure behind his blows, Sam finally draws blood. Dean gasps but it’s not the gasp of pain Sam is expecting, nor is it a sound of arousal. It’s the sound of breakthrough. He strikes at Dean’s glutes where they meet his thighs and flicks softer at the more delicate skin between them. Drawing back, Sam aims an overhand slash at Dean’s spine, pulling it at the last moment so it doesn’t rend skin.

Dripping sweat, Sam surveys his canvas and finds welts rising to the surface of Dean’s skin. Dean still isn’t tapping out, though, and Sam can tell he’s still fighting his way out of the pit. Resuming his stance, Sam swings for a side blow that hits Dean’s ribs with enough force to raise Dean up off his knees. He swings from the other side and flicks his wrist at just the right moment to send the braided leather cracking into the cut on Dean’s chest.

Dean screams, and Sam calls it. He’s covered in sweat and winded by his attempts to break down Dean’s walls. Dean’s sagging in his chains, breath heaving, skin coated in a bile-inducing mixture of sweat and blood. Tossing the whip to the side, Sam approaches Dean and releases his wrists from the shackles, catching him against his body long enough to unfasten the hood and send it the way of the whip. He runs his free hand through Dean’s sweat-damp hair and leans him forward enough so he’s braced against the wall. After disengaging the restraints on his ankles, he briefly lays Dean on the cold cement floor while he blows out the remaining candles.

Moving swiftly back to his brother, Sam picks Dean’s limp body up in a bridal carry and stalks from the room. He walks as quickly as he dares to Dean’s room and lays him down on his back on the bed, Dean’s groaned protest a stab through Sam’s chest. Running to his own room, he grabs the first aid kit he keeps under his bed and returns to Dean’s side.

The slash over Dean’s heart is bleeding faster now, that final strike having cut deeper into the meat of Dean’s chest, and Sam knows it’s going to require more than just a few stitches. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he evaluates the rest of Dean’s injuries, but this is the worst; he can salve and bandage the rest.

Covering Dean’s lower half with the sheet, he calls for the angel. “Cas, I could use your help.”

The flutter of wings is a momentary balm, and he doesn’t give Cas a chance to question. He just points at the wound and demands, “Heal it, Cas.”

Cas takes a long look at the bleeding gash over Dean’s heart, noting the other welts and red spots and blooming bruises across his skin. 

“Sam,” he starts with confusion in his eyes.

“Not now, Cas,” he forcibly replies, the crimson gore of his brother’s chest his sole concern. “Just heal him.”

Cas approaches the bedside and takes in the damage done to his friend. He touches two fingers to Dean’s chest. Sam watches as the flesh knits together under the near-blinding glow of Cas’s grace. He mutters his thanks when Cas is done.

Cas turns to look at Sam, face as empty as he’s ever seen it, and says, “I also healed an area on his ribs and a bruise on his inner thigh that was too close to the femoral artery.”

Sam’s head droops, and he runs his clammy hands through his hair. A lone tear spills from the corner of his eye, and Sam just nods his acknowledgement.

“Sam, are you going to be okay?” Cas’s voice is a quiet blend of concern, compassion, and remorse.

With the resolve of a man who’s lived through a thousand hells, Sam glances up at his friend with hollow eyes and replies. “Thanks, Cas. I can take it from here.”

With one last lingering glance at Sam and then Dean, Cas nods and feathers out to wherever Sam called him from.

Sam bends to the first aid kit and starts the long and attentive process of cleaning, stitching, and binding Dean’s wounds. He applies arnica ointment to the areas where he can see blossoms of red and violet raising to the skin’s surface. He carefully rolls Dean to his stomach and smooths salve over the welts from the whip’s blows, Sam’s blows. Then he runs to the bathroom and dampens several washcloths to wipe the sweat from Dean’s skin. He also scrapes one through Dean’s hair, scrubbing at his scalp and getting the remnants of candle wax out of the short strands at the base of Dean’s skull.

One more trip to the bathroom for ibuprofen and water, and Sam props Dean up and encourages him to swallow the anti-inflammatories. It takes a few tries, and Dean chokes a bit on the third pill, but he gets them all down. Propping a couple pillows under Dean’s head, Sam lowers himself to the floor at Dean’s bedside and grips his hand.

Dean is hovering in that place between sleep and awake. Sam watches his eyes shutter open and closed, makes eye contact a couple times, but he doesn’t speak a word. Dean drifts off for a while, Sam sitting sentinel at his side the entire time.

When Dean’s finally in deep REM sleep, Sam takes a few minutes to fall apart. Tears steadily stream down his face, and he lets out a sob that causes Dean to start. Muffling his sounds in his shoulder, Sam squeezes Dean’s hand and feels a responding press of skin. There’s a soft slurred, “Sammy”, and he glances up to see familiar green amber eyes peering at him.

Dean tugs at Sam’s hand with the strength of a newborn baby and mutters, “C’mere.”

Sam stops fighting the tears and clambers into bed. He curls into Dean’s left side, laying his head on Dean’s chest over the spot where he’d previously cut and hit him. He can hear the steady beat in his ear and feel the rise of breath under his cheek. Inhale, two, three, four. Exhale, two, three, four. Dean strokes his hand through Sam’s hair and whispers, “Sleep, Sammy.”

And Sam does.

*************

He wakes the next morning to a touch on his chest. His eyes open to find Dean freshly showered and partially dressed, looking at the dried and flaking bloody handprint. His brother glances up at him from where he’s sitting at the edge of the bed, then looks down at his own bare chest. He looks back up and stares into Sam’s eyes with an intensity that pierces his soul. Then he reaches over to the nightstand and picks up a dry washcloth and dips it into a plastic container of water. Wringing it out, he wipes the night’s sweat from Sam’s face and neck, trailing down Sam’s torso, scrubbing up his arms and under his pits. He soaks and wrings it out again, then rolls him over to bathe his back. Finally, he flips Sam back over and lays the damp cloth over his chest, letting the moisture soak in enough to not have to scour the blood from Sam’s skin.

Dropping the bloody rag in the water, Dean reaches for the muscle relaxers he has sitting on the nightstand. Passing them and a bottle of water to Sam, he watches as his brother swallows them, scratching his nails lightly over the taut flesh of his stomach.

“Hop in the shower, Sammy, while I fix us something to eat.”

Sam doesn’t even protest the nickname. He just hauls himself out of Dean’s bed and shuffles like the walking dead to the bathroom, Dean at his back the entire way. Closing the door behind himself, he relieves his bladder while he waits for the water to warm up. Washing the remainders of the previous night from his body, he lets the heat soak into his muscles and begin to rinse away his pain.

A soft knock on the door and Dean’s “Food’s ready” is all the prompt Sam needs to step out of the shower and towel off. He moves to the mirror to survey how rough his face looks and instead sees a message left behind on the glass, letters written with laser precision on the steamed surface. It’s one word, the same word Sam had carved into Dean’s shoulder blade the night before.

_“LOVE”_

Sam’s eyes water, but he’s also smiling. He doesn’t know when Dean saw it, or if he knew as soon as Sam carved it, but it doesn’t matter.

He stalks to his room to dress. After donning his normal everyday attire, he makes a quick detour to clean up the mess he left behind in Dean’s torture chamber, but it’s already been taken care of. So, he follows the smell of bacon to the kitchen. The groceries from the day before have been put away, and Dean is at the counter putting together sandwiches and a salad. Sam walks up behind him and wraps his arms around his waist, nuzzles into his exposed left shoulder blade where his safeword lies.

Dean reaches back and scratches his fingers against Sam’s scalp, his other hand cradling Sam’s at his waist. There’s a content smile on his face that Sam can’t see. He’s not quite sure what it means, that Sam’s safe word is embedded in his skin, but he knows he feels okay. Better than he has in quite some time. Sam gave him that, and he’s not going to let him regret it.

**Author's Note:**

> *hands all of you copious amounts of tissues and alcohol* I don’t even have words, y’all. I’m sorry? I’m not sorry? Please don’t hate me? *head desk*
> 
> I truly hope this didn’t trigger anyone. I hope that the tags and warnings were enough to guide those who might be hurt by this content. Please accept my sincerest wishes for everyone’s mental and emotional well-being. And thanks for reading! I swear, the other undergarments will be less traumatizing.
> 
> As usual, if you catch any glaring typos or grammatical errors, please let me know.


End file.
